october 4th.
here i am! it is not a bit as i imagined, but ever so much nicer. lorna looks sweet in grown-up things, and she thinks i look sweet in mine. she comes into my bed at nights, and we talk for hours. the house is right in the middle of the town, in a dingy old square, where the trees look more black than green. it is ugly and shabby, but there is plenty of room, which is a good thing, for i am sure it is needed. the doctor sits in his consulting-room all the morning seeing patients, who wait their turn in the dining-room, and if there are a great many you have to be late for lunch, but, as lorna says, “that means another guinea, so we mustn’t grumble!” they are not at all rich, because the six boys cost so much to educate. they are all away at school and college, except the oldest and the youngest, of whom more anon.
dr forbes is an old love. he has shaggy grey hair, and merry eyes, and the funniest way of talking aloud to himself without knowing what he is saying. at lunch he will keep up a running conversation like this: “nasty case—yes, nasty case! poor woman, poor woman! very little chance—little chance—very good steak, my dear—an admirable dinner you have given me! am-pu-ta-tion at eleven—mustn’t forget the medicine. three times a day. a little custard, if you please,” and so on, and so on, and the others never take any notice, but eat away as if no one were speaking.
mrs forbes is large and kind, and shakes when she laughs. i don’t think she is clever, exactly, but she’s an admirable mother, and lets them do exactly as they like.
wallace isn’t bad. he is twenty-four, and fairly good-looking, and not as conceited as men generally are at that age. personally, i prefer them older, but he evidently approves of me, and that is soothing to the feelings. julias, surnamed “midas,” is only twelve, and a most amusing character. i asked lorna and wallace how he got his nickname, as we sat together over a fire in the old schoolroom the first night. they laughed, and wallace said—(of course, i call him dr wallace, really, but i can’t be bothered to write it here)—
“because everything he touches turns to gold, or, to speak more correctly, copper! he has a genius for accumulating money, and has what we consider quite a vast sum deposited in the savings bank. my father expects him to develop into a great financier, and we hope he may pension off all his brothers and sister, to keep them from the workhouse. to do midas justice, he is not mean in a good cause, and i believe he will do the straight thing.”
“but how can he make money? he is only twelve. i don’t see how it is to be done,” i cried. and they laughed and said—
“it began years ago—when he shed his front teeth. mother used to offer us sixpence a tooth when they grew waggly, and we pulled them out without any fuss. we each earned sixpences in our turn, and all went well; but when midas once began he was not content to stop, and worked away at sound, new double teeth, until he actually got out two in one afternoon. then mother took alarm, and the pay was stopped. there was an interregnum after that, and what came next? let me see—it must have been the sleeping sickness. midas grew very rapidly, miss sackville, and it was very difficult to get him to bed at nights, so as the mater thought he was suffering from the want of sleep, she promised him threepence an hour for every hour he spent in bed before nine o’clock. after that he retired regularly every night at seven, and on half-holidays it’s a solemn fact that he was in bed at four o’clock, issuing instructions as to the viands which were to be brought up for his refreshment! the mater stood it for a time, but the family finances wouldn’t bear the strain, so she limited the hours and reduced the fee, and midas returned to his old ways. what came after that, lorna?”
“i don’t know—i forget! of course there was biggs—”
“ah, yes, miss biggs! miss biggs, you must know, miss sackville, is an ancient friend of the family, whom we consider it a duty to invite for a yearly visit. she is an admirable old soul, but very deaf, very slow, and incredibly boring. her favourite occupation is to bring down sheaves of letters from other maiden ladies, and insist upon reading them aloud to the assembled family. ‘i have just had a letter from louisa gibbings; i am sure you will like to hear it,’ she will say calmly, when the poor old parents are enjoying a quiet read after dinner, and we youngsters are in the middle of a game. none of us have the remotest idea who louisa gibbings may be, and don’t want to know, but we are bound to listen to three sheets of uninteresting information as to how ‘my brother in china contemplates a visit home next year.’ ‘my garden is looking charming, but the peas are very poor this season.’ ‘you will be grieved to hear that our good mary still suffers acutely from the old complaint,’ etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. last time she paid her visit when midas had his easter holidays, and one day, seeing mother quite exhausted by her efforts at entertainment, he made the brilliant proposal that he should take miss biggs off her hands for the sum of fourpence an hour. mother agreed with enthusiasm, and midas made quite a fortune in the next fortnight, with equal satisfaction to all concerned. in the morning he took miss biggs out walking to see the sights, and gave her his advice in the purchase of new caps. in the afternoon the wily young wretch cajoled her into giving him an hour’s coaching in french, and in the evening he challenged her to draughts and dominoes, and made a point of allowing her to win. mother had a chance of attending to her work; father could read in peace; midas was in a condition of such complacent good nature that he declared miss biggs was a ‘ripping old girl,’ and she on her part gave him the credit for being ‘the most gentlemanly youth she had ever encountered.’ i believe she is really attached to him, and should not wonder if she remembers him substantially in her will. then midas will have scored a double triumph!”
wallace and lorna laughed as heartily as i did over these histories. they really are a most good-natured family, and wallace treats lorna as politely as if she were someone else, and not his own sister, which is very different from some young men i could mention. i had put on my blue dress, and i knew quite well that he admired it and me, and that put me in such good spirits that i was quite sparkling and witty. he stayed talking to us until after nine, when he had to go downstairs to write some letters.
“thank goodness! i thought he would never go. what a bore he is!” lorna said, when the door closed behind him.
i didn’t feel like that at all, but i disguised my feelings, and told her the details and the adventures of the last three months, and about vere, and the house, and my own private tribulations, and she sympathised and looked at everything from my point of view, in the nice, unprejudiced way friends have. it was very soothing, and i could have gone on for a long time, but it was only polite to return the compliment, so i said—
“now we must talk about you! you said in your last letter that you had many troubles of which you could not write. poor, sweet thing, tell me about them! begin at the beginning. what do you consider your very greatest trial?”
lorna pondered. she is dark and slight, and wears her hair parted in the middle, and puffed out at the sides in a quaint fashion that just suits her style. she wrinkled her brows, and stared into space in a rapt, melancholy fashion.
“i think,” she said, slowly, at last, “i think it is the drawing-room!”
i was surprised, but still not surprised, for the drawing-room is awful! big and square, and filled with heavy furniture, and a perfect shopful of ugly ornaments and bead mats, and little tables, and milking-stools, and tambourines, and bannerettes, and all the kind of things that were considered lovely ages ago, but which no self-respecting girl of our age could possibly endure. lorna told me thrilling tales of her experience with that room.
“when i first came home, mother saw that i didn’t like it, so she said she knew quite well that she was old-fashioned and behind the times, and now that she had a grown-up daughter she would leave the arrangement of such things to her, and i could alter the room as much as ever i liked. so, my dear, i made mary bring the biggest tray in the house, and i filled it three times over with gimcracks of all descriptions, and sent them up to the box-room cupboard. i kept about three tables instead of seven, with really nice things on them, and left a good sweep of floor on which you could walk about without knocking things down. i pulled out the piano from the wall, and lowered the pictures, and gathered all the old china together, and put it on the chimney-piece, and—and—oh, i can’t tell you all the alterations, but you would hardly have known it for the same room! it looked quite decent. when all was finished, i sent for mother, and she came in and sat down, and, my dear, she turned quite white! she kept looking round and round, searching for things where she had been accustomed to find them, and she looked as if something hurt her. i asked her if she didn’t like it, and she said—
“‘oh, yes, it looks much more—more modern. yes, dear, you have been very clever. it is quite—smart! a little bare, isn’t it—just a little bare, don’t you think?’
“‘no, mother,’ i said sternly, ‘not the least little bit in the world! it seems so to you because you have had it so crowded that there was no room to move, but you will soon get accustomed to the room as it is, and like it far better.’
“‘yes, dear,’ she said meekly, ‘of—of course. i’m sure you are quite right,’ and will you believe it, una, she went straight into her own room, and cried! i know she did, for i saw the marks on her face later on, and taxed her with it. she was very apologetic, but she said the little table with the gold legs had been father’s first gift to her after they were married, and she couldn’t bear to have it put aside; and the ivory basket under the glass shade had come from the first french exhibition, and she had worked those bead bannerettes herself when i was teething, and threatened with convulsions, and she did not dare to leave the house. of course, i felt a wretch, and hugged her, and said—
“‘why didn’t you say so before? we will bring them back at once, and put them where they were; but you have not tender associations with all the things. you did not work that hideous patchwork cushion, for instance, and—’
“‘no, but aunt mary ryley did,’ she cried eagerly, ‘and it is made out of pieces of all the dresses we wore when we were girls together. i often look at it and remember the happy times i had in the grey poplin and the puce silk.’
“so, of course, the cushion had to come back too, and by the end of a week every single thing was taken out of the cupboard, and put in its former place! they all had memories, and mother loved the memories, and cared nothing for the appearance. i was sweet about it. i wouldn’t say so to anyone but you, una, but i really was quite angelic, until one day when amy reeve came to call. she was staying with some friends a few miles off, and drove in to see me. you know how inquisitive amy is, and how she stares, and takes in everything, and quizzes it afterwards? well, my dear, she sat there, and her eyes simply roved round and round the whole time, until she must have known the furniture by heart. i suffered,” sighed lorna plaintively, “i suffered anguish! i wouldn’t have minded anyone else so much—but amy!”
i said, (properly), that amy was a snob and an idiot, and that it mattered less than nothing what she thought, but all the time i knew that i should have felt humiliated myself, and lorna knew it, too, but was not vexed with me for pretending the contrary, for it is only right to set a good example.
“of course,” she said, “one ought to be above such petty trials. if a friendship hangs upon chiffoniers and bead mats, it can’t be worth keeping. i have told myself so ever since, but human nature is hard to kill, and i should have liked the house to look nice when amy called! i despise myself for it, but i foresee that that room is going to be a continual trial. its ugliness weighs upon me, and i feel self-conscious and uncomfortable every time my friends come to call, but i am not going to attempt any more changes. i wouldn’t make the dear old mother cry again for fifty drawing-rooms!”
i thought it was sweet of her to talk like that, and wanted so badly to find a way out of the difficulty. i always feel there must be a way, and if one only thinks long enough it can generally be found. i sat plunged in thought, and at last the inspiration came.
“didn’t you say this room was your own to do with as you liked?”
“yes; mother said i could have it for my den. nobody uses it now; but, una, it is hideous, too!”
“but it might be made pretty! it is small, and wouldn’t take much furnishing. you could pick up a few odds and ends from other rooms that would not be missed.”
“oh, yes, mother wouldn’t mind that, and the green felting on the floor is quite nice and new; but the paint, and the paper-saffron roses—and gold skriggles—and a light oak door! how could you possibly make anything look artistic against such a background?”
“you couldn’t, and it wouldn’t be much fun if you could. i’ve thought of something far more exciting. lorna, let us paper and paint it ourselves! let us go to town to-morrow, and choose the very, very most artistic and up-to-date paper that can be bought, and buy some tins of enamel, and turn workmen every morning. oh, do! i should love it; and you were saying only an hour ago that you did not know how to amuse me in the mornings. if we did the room together you would always associate me with it, and i should feel as if it were partly mine, and be able to imagine just where you were sitting. oh, do, lorna! it would be such ripping sport!”
she didn’t speak for a good half-minute, but just sat staring up in ecstasy of joy.
“you angel!” she cried at last. “you simple duck! how can you think of such lovely plans? oh, una, how have i lived without you all these months? of course, i’ll do it. i’d love to! i am never happier than when i am wrapped up in an apron with a brush in my hand. i’ve enamelled things before now, but never hung a paper. do you really think we could?”
“of course! if the british workman can do it, there can’t be much skill required, and we with our trained intelligence will soon overcome any difficulty,” i said grandiloquently. “all we want is a pot of paste, and a pair of big scissors, and a table to lay the strips of paper on. i’ve seen it done scores of times.”
“so have i,” said lorna. “and doesn’t the paste smell! i expect, what with that and the enamel, we shall have no appetites left. it will spoil our complexions, too, very likely, and make us pale and sallow, but that doesn’t matter.”
i thought it mattered a good deal. it was all very well for her, but she wasn’t staying with a friend who had an interesting grown-up brother. even the finest natures can be inconsiderate sometimes.
